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A Message Driven Home
It was Bennath the 22nd, of the year 193. Shadows were creeping along the cabbage fields and wooden fences of Oak Gate – or Oak Way, as some wanted to call it- as the sun began its descent. Some residents spoke with their neighbors, talking about current events, like King Victor giving up his power as one of Hallowrein’s rulers, or the ‘event’ going on at the Guild of Rune’s headquarters. Word had been brought along merchant wagons, but news had a way of being blown out of proportion – some whispered that King Victor was dead and the Guild of Rune had been destroyed. This did nothing to deter Oak Gate’s citizens, however – life was quiet there, for the most part (save for the events pertaining to the White Knight captain, but that was a long time ago). While some spoke with their friends and family, others sat in their homes reading books or sipping tea. Children ran about outside, the boys using fallen sticks as swords and acting as if they were battling the forces of evil. Some even portrayed former Resistance members – Gautier being the most common throughout the game – and even a few girls participated. If Portia Qir could be an adventurer, why couldn’t they be one, too? The shadows creeped longer as the sun set, and none took notice of two figures along a road headed north. One, dressed in bearskin and hammers clipped to his belt, was taller than his cave goblin companion and much more hairy. Though his scraggly beard covered it, a white scar crossed his throat – a remembrance of a life before this side of the Salve. His arms were crossed, one hand absent-mindly scratching his chin. “Older, how long we wait?” Oldrell, his companion, was much shorter than the werewolf, Fluffers, and his shoulders being hunched made him look smaller. His skin, a pale green, was different from the other goblin brethren here on the surface, and wide-eyes spoke of what he was: A cave goblin, from the undercity called Dorgesh-Kaan. He looked up at Fluffers, giving him a guarded look, before looking back at the village. “They’ll be here when they get here, Fluffers. I don’t see why you keep asking me that – it is getting much annoying, you know.” In reply, the werewolf grunted. Not long after this rather boring conversation came the familiar sound of a horse approaching. Oldrell and Fluffers turned around to face this new arrival: A man on a white horse, clothed in a robe much like their master’s. He reined in to steer to the side of the road, all the while watching the two on the road. After a few moments of silence, he spoke: “What was the name I was given on the day Al Kharid fell to Hermine?” “Debello,” came Oldrell’s answer. Debello nodded, then looked down the road as another horse approached, this one bright red with a mane made as if of fire when the sun glanced upon it. Another man, dressed in the same robes as Debello, rode upon it with ease, unlike the rigid way Debello carried himself. His skin was a dark brown, speaking of dealings in the desert, and a crimson blade lay at his waist. He made a small bow to the other three then focused his attention on Oldrell. He murmured the same question that Debello had spoken only moments before, and Oldrell answered “Bellum.” The horseman nodded and reined to the opposite side of the road, peering down the way as two other horses began their approach. One was black as the darkest night, and it made a stain upon the world as an inkblot would on parchment. The other was pale, and if it were night might have been mistaken as a ghost. The riders, of course, wore the same garb as Debello and Bellum. An exotic bracelet adorned with a glowing diamond graced the third Horseman’s left wrist; a book was carried in the fourth Horseman’s hands, runic markings covering the binding. “Fames. Nex,” answered Oldrell in an irritated voice. The two riders looked at each other before shrugging. The riders’ turned their attention to the cave goblin, all eyes anxious on receiving the orders from their master. Debello’s fingers brushed across the Imperial Guard sigil as the cave goblin asked what news they had. “Botyr Ilkson plans on increasing security in Burthrope, which might prepare him for any sort of attack Hallowrein might offer. ‘King’ Orpheus is on the move,” Debello answered, calm eyes glancing at the other Horsemen. “General Manlius is dead – Euridus has unveiled the staff,” Bellum murmured, stroking the hilt of his sword. “I don’t believe any suspect of my true nature, though there is always that chance…” Fames trailed off. Oldrell nodded in reply and turned to the fourth Horseman, Nex. Nex shifted in his saddle, looking at the other Horsemen. He finally turned his gaze back to the cave goblin and sighed. “The boy is difficult, but he will make progress – I can assure you that.” With the news settled, Oldrell looked up at the sky – the sun would soon be gone, and their actions must be witnessed within the final minutes of day. He turned back to the Horsemen, who all shifted their saddles under the Architect’s unwavering gaze. “Well? We have our orders. Let’s go.” ¤†‡†¤ It was a curious sight as four robed men dismounted from strangely-colored horses in front of old Jaunder’s place – usually, strangers just passed through Oak Gate, unless, of course, they were here on business. So, though it was an odd sight, some dismissed it initially as just that – perhaps they were from Falador with a message from Queen Bellette – after all, Jaunder and his family were relatives of hers. Perhaps it was an invitation to go live in the city life, like some of Bellette’s family had already done. It wasn’t any of these things, of course, but no one did anything as two of the robed men stayed put at the gate. Two other ‘men’ – if they could be called that; one was a bit scruffy and looked almost part beast himself, and the other was a goblin – made their way past them, standing out in the yard. The other two Horsemen walked to the front door, passing two boys playing in the front yard. The one with the bracelet winked at them as the two ‘adventurers’ fell silent. The Horseman with the sword at his waist knocked at the door three times, paused, then knocked two times. The door opened, revealing Jaunder himself – a man in his late forties with a hooked nose and eyes that were too close together. He squinted at the robed men and asked what they were there for. In reply, the two jerked him out onto the lawn. A stir passed through citizens of Oak Gate as that happened, and some even went to see if Jaunder was okay – that all halted as the man with the sigil pinned to his robes raised a crossbow. The Horseman with the sword walked into the house and several seconds later was dragging Jaunder’s wife, Isabelle, and their ten-year-old daughter, Fariine, out onto the lawn. Jaunder rose as if to curse at the strangers when the big man hit him in the back of the head. The farmer collapsed onto the ground, making a loud thud sound as he did so. By now, cries of protest were coming from Jaunder’s neighbors, but as some started forward they were pushed back, as if something were in the way. One of the Horsemen, a man carrying a book, smiled at them before turning his attention to the family. Some villagers shouted “What are you doing?” while others rushed off, carrying children away. The two boys, the sons of Jaunder, watched the strangers with wide eyes, their ‘swords’ clattering on the ground. The big man who had hit their father stared at their mother and sister with a hungry look and asked dumbly “Now what?” The Horseman with the bracelet stopped in front of Jaunder and smiled at the expression on the old farmer’s face. ¤†‡†¤ The cries of protest suddenly turned to wails as the fourth Horseman turned his attention to the family of five. The five screamed as if they were being burned alive, yet no one touched them. And then, almost as if they were being held by invisible rope, they lifted in the air, one after the other, and were placed against the walls of the house. Tears were led in streams down each of their faces. Fluffers started forward, taking a hammer off of his belt. A savage grin was on his face as he was lifted into the air by the same sort of magic that had placed the family of five against the house. He floated in front of Jaunder, then motioned for Oldrell to toss something up – a leather pack of some sort. Fluffers looked at it dumbly, turning it over in his hand. He unbuckled the strap to it and took out two nails as Nex rearranged Jaunder’s arms into an outstretched position. “Hold still, human,” Fluffers growled. And with each scream and every pound of the hammer, Jaunder’s family was crucified on the very house they had lived in. They wriggled around, but ultimately they faced the same fate. The light left their eyes, they eventually stopped wriggling around, and the blood became a new coat of paint on the front of the house. Fluffers floated back to the ground, licking the bloodied hammer as he would a lollipop. The Four Horseman, save Fames, all stared in distaste at the handiwork of the Butcher. A few residents of Oak Gate began to take action, shouting at the killers. Some even brought their everyday tools as weapons, but none were able to pass what barrier Nex had put up. Debello fingered the trigger on his crossbow, scowling at the villagers. Nex beckoned the cave goblin forward; the last act was about to begin. Oldrell took out a paintbrush from the pack at his waist and allowed himself to be floated up to where Jaunder was. With a dab in the crimson streams, Oldrell began to leave a message for the good king of Hallowrein. ¤†‡†¤ The killers were long gone, and moonlight now cast its glow upon Oak Gate. Many were gathered around the Jaunder household, but none kept their gaze on the corpses for too long. Most didn’t look at all, actually – instead, they sobbed into other’s arms or were speaking in hushed tones to their neighbors. A stir passed through the crowd as one of the villagers led two white knights through. The moonlight refracted off the knights’ armor, giving the appearance that they were glowing. “Make way!” one of the knights called, pushing through the last stretch of the crowd. The two of them looked up at the bodies and then at each other, with a single thought crossing through both of their minds: Who could have done such a thing? And it would not be long before they saw the message, written in Jaunder’s blood: To our noble King and Queen, This is the price that must be paid. Blood would stain that white plate And that crown shall be made of swords, But let this be of such a warning, For trusting in Gods and omens.